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Mama et Papa,
It's been several days since my last letter, and I'm sorry. I will try to write more often from now on, I promise. It has been busy here, what with the laying of wire and constant noise. The men are always coming in with some scratch or bruise (or worse) that needs attending too. Honestly, I don't believe they're that big of babies; I really think some of them just want a bit of shelter from the rain, a soft voice and touch, and a friendly face that isn't their Sergeant. Which is where we nurses come in.
How is Henri? He hasn't written me in a week. You're keeping him from enlisting, I trust. You must tell me if he has thoughts of joining up, and though I do not wish to frighten him, I'll tell him exactly what he'll find if he does. And I'm sure I can get one or two of the boys here to add a note as well. They'd all love to be home with their families.
There is one Frenchman here, stubborn as they come and with the luck of the Devil when it comes to remaining alive. I suppose it has something to do with his name, 'Achille'. They haven't hit his heel yet, and so he lives on. Well, he goes through the motions of living, giving the impression he is simply waiting for his turn to die on the Front. And yet I don't truly believe he wants to die. He still knows how to laugh, though it is rare, and he cares what happens to others. He is not dead on the inside, despite what he has seen here, and I pray that he realizes he has the strength to live through to the end of this. I pulled him into the trenches the other night when he was hit, and I'm certain he will have no words of thanks for me. In fact, he yelled at me about how women have no place in a battle, especially not on the front. He's archaic in his thoughts, and yet chivalrous all the same. Like the men in Paris you told me about when you were a girl, mama.
I should go, as there are bandages that need to be changed. Our work is never done.
Your loving daughter,
Elise